Talk To Me
by Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: "I'm fine." "No you're not! Someone who's fine doesn't cut himself every night after he thinks everyone's asleep! Someone who's fine doesn't shut everybody out! Someone who's fine would let his concerned brother help him because he's afraid one day he's going to break into a thousand pieces and his big brother won't be there to fix it!" Really sad, warning for self harm/cutting


_**Really angsty and sad, but I'm a sucker for Dick and Tim brotherly love so there's lots of that. Mentions of self harm/cutting, mental health issues, anorexia kinda, and references to suicide. Also some hints about other comic issues like Teen Titans #51-52, Red Robin #4, and Robin #156 sort of. I've always thought Tim seemed a little depressed and possibly suicidal, so I felt the need to write this for some reason. I own nothing**!_

* * *

"Tim, we need to talk."

Those were the words that started it all. Until then, Tim had thought he'd been doing a fairly good job at hiding everything from his observant older brother. He lifted his head from the case notes he was studying, putting on a convincing poker face. Luckily he'd been using that very expression more and more lately, so it wasn't difficult.

His deep blue eyes were emotionless as he stared at his brother, who leaned against the doorway leading into the Batcave. "About what, Dick?" His voice was detached, lifeless. Dick easily recognized it as his Red Robin voice, the same one he used nightly to intimidate criminals. He pushed aside the hurt that arose when he heard it being used on him.

Dick strolled through the empty Batcave to where Tim sat at the computer, the same place he'd been sitting for the last four hours as he poured over case files. Dick stopped when he reached the desk, gently but firmly taking a folder from Tim's hands and placing it back on the desk in front of him.

He and Tim were both in civvies, so Tim could see his eyes that were often concealed behind a mask. They held frustration and concern, both of which made Tim regret not leaving the cave the second he saw his brother.

Dick crossed his arms and tilted his head, his intense gaze focused on Tim. "How are you doing?", Dick asked. It was a casual question, one that wouldn't worry any normal person. But for Tim, this was a dangerous inquiry. Very dangerous.

He's had years of practice hiding his feelings and inner turmoil from his family, who were thankfully often too busy in their war against crime to notice. Dick, however, was an obstacle. He was too caring, too observant, too concerned. Tim constantly found himself covering his tracks when around Dick, which was growing exhausting.

He shrugged nonchalantly, saying, "I'm fine," before attempting to return to his work.

Dick put a hand on Tim's arm as it reached to retrieve the folder. Tim paused, glaring. Damn, this wasn't going to be easy.

"No, you're not, Tim", Dick replied gently. "I know you're not. Please just talk to me for a minute."

Dick's stare was beginning to make Tim uncomfortable, so he stood up and started towards the back of the cave where a punching bag hung. Maybe if Dick saw he was busy training he would leave him alone. He heard Dick's quiet footsteps following him, and he inwardly sighed at his persistence.

"Talk about what?", he asked with annoyance. He refused to look at Dick as he slowly wrapped his hands in protective cloth, his eyes narrowing.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dick lean against the wall across from him. "Anything. Anything that can give me a clue about what you're feeling", he answered.

Tim rolled his eyes. He really didn't want to be having this conversation right now. "I'm fine", he repeated. "Stop being so overemotional, Dick." He began punching the heavy bag, his movements laced with the usual fury and intensity he fought with.

Dick shook his head. "Don't give me that crap, Tim. I know you. Every time anyone tries to understand what's going through your head you shut down and tell us you're 'fine'. Well you're not fine, Tim, you're far from it. Can't you let me in for once?"

Tim didn't respond, instead attacking the swinging bag even harder than before. He wondered what the heck had prompted this confrontation. He'd been acting exactly the same as he normally acted, so what had sparked this outburst? Dick waited patiently as Tim thought, waiting for some kind of answer.

"Tim", he said louder. "Talk to me."

Tim paused in his attacks, holding the bag steady as he finally looked at Dick. "Why the sudden concern? You're never this forward", was all he said before he went back to punching the innocent bag. He purposefully dodged the question, instead focusing the attention back on his brother. He's good at these kinds of talks; he knows how to get out of them before he's forced to divulge too much.

Dick crossed his arms. "You've been... off, lately. I don't know what happened, but I'm getting really worried about you, little brother."

Tim said nothing. He waited as Dick continued. "In fact, we're really overdue for a talk like this if you ask me. Things have been building up for a while, but you haven't done anything about it. I can see it in your eyes even now. Frankly, it hurts to watch you go through whatever this is."

"Which is..?"

Dick threw his hands up. "You tell me! Please, Tim, just talk to me. You need to let it out. You're holding everything inside, but you can't keep acting as though it doesn't exist."

Tim glared. "As if what doesn't exist?"

Dick's eyebrows fell and his face became morose. "The pain. The pain that is clearly killing you inside. God, I can't keep watching you go through life while you pretend as though you're not suffering."

Tim's expression didn't change, though inside his mind was filled with questions. How long had Dick been studying him? How could he possibly think he knows all of this? More importantly, why does he even care?

Tim breathed heavily, missing the small splotches of blood that appeared on the cloths on his hands where his knuckles split against the bag. This minor pain was nothing new. "I don't know what you think you're talking about, Dick, but I'm really fine. There's no pain, there's no hurt that you need to worry about, okay? I swear that whatever fake agony you think you've been seeing is just you being paranoid."

Dick looked skeptical. "Really?", he challenged.

"Really."

Dick's shoulders slumped slightly. "I know about the scars, Tim."

Those words sent a chill down Tim's spine, and it took all he had to keep himself from freezing mid-punch. His mind started panicking at the thought of his brother knowing what he's been doing to himself. On the outside, however, he tried not to react in a way that would reveal too much. He merely turned around and began to leave for the manor, softly saying, "I don't know what you're talking about."

A hand grabbed his arm, and, before he could resist, pulled up his sleeve to expose his wrist.

There, covering the pale skin in criss cross patterns, were dozens of scars. Self-inflicted thin lines going all the way from the base of his wrist to above his elbow, some long faded and some as fresh as from the day before. Tim paled and yanked his arm away from Dick's grasp. He tugged the fabric back down, inwardly cringing when a cut he had made that morning stung as he brushed against it.

"It's not what you think", he said.

Dick's eyes narrowed. "Not what I think? How could this be anything other than self harm? I've known for weeks, anyway, so don't think for a second that you can hide it from me anymore."

"How did you-"

"I'm a detective, Tim. Of course I saw all the signs", Dick divulged sadly.

There was a beat of silence as each man plotted his next move. Tim wished he could just run away from this confrontation, but clearly Dick had been working up to this a while and wasn't going to let him off that easily.

If only he had his Red Robin uniform. The cowl and the cape made him feel safe and protected, but now he was completely exposed. He yearnd for the familiar mask on his face so he could obscure his emotions from the world like always, but that wasn't going to be an option at the moment.

The tension in the air was so thick one could cut it with a knife. After minutes ticked by it was Tim who finally spoke.

"What are you doing, Dick?"

Dick didn't move. "I'm trying to get you to let me in," he answered simply, as though that were some easy feat.

"Why?," asked Tim. In his whole life he'd never had to deal with someone who wanted to understand him the way Dick did. His parents didn't care, his friends didn't care, so he never had to worry about keeping someone from trying to get in his head.

He watched silently as Dick moved to the cot by the med bay area and sat down, patting the spot beside him and waiting for Tim to join him. After considering his options, Tim did the same. He figured he had no chance of escaping this conversation unless there was some kind of huge distraction that he still hoped for, and if he tried to run Dick would easily catch him.

He sat on the cot several feet to Dick's left, a more than safe distance away from his brother. This wasn't unusual though, since Tim had always been weird with physical contact.

He looked down at his lap as Dick spoke.

"Tim, you need to let whatever you're feeling out. Don't try telling me you're fine, please don't, because I can see that you're not. You're hurting so badly and you won't talk to anyone about it. I've been waiting so long for you to do something, to look to anyone for help, but all you do is go about your day pretending nothing's wrong. You can't keep suffering in silence like this, Tim," Dick said. His voice was soft, softer than Tim had ever heard it before.

"What do you want me to do, then?," Tim asked. He honestly just wanted to know what Dick needed to hear so he could escape this conversation as soon as possible.

Dick shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I want you to let me help you. Or anyone, really. I'm worried about you, kid. Sure, we all have hard times, but most other heroes have a healthy way of dealing with it. You used to call me whenever things got bad. Remember that? Whenever you got all dark and mopey you'd call me and I'd help you get through it. Now you just shut yourself up in your room and refuse to talk to anyone about your problems anymore. I have to say it's more than a little concerning, especially when I know that you've resorted to taking it out on yourself." He gestured to Tim's arms, which were now hugging Tim loosely around his middle.

Tim wasn't entirely sure what to think. He wished he'd been better at covering it all up. He thought before that he'd been doing such a great job at hiding his issues from the world, but apparently that wasn't working as much as he thought it was. He _really_ didn't want to be here right now. He didn't want to see the pitiful look he knew was in Dick's eyes. He didn't want Dick to feel bad for him like he was some child in need of help. Why couldn't he just leave him be?

Tim refused to make eye contact, focusing his attention on a small crack in the floor in front of him. "You shouldn't care so much about this. My life is exactly like the rest of the bats', so stop trying to single me out and insist that there's some kind of inner torment or something", he said stubbornly.

Dick shook his head. "No way. Your life is definitely not like the rest of ours; it's sadder."

Tim's head snapped up in offense as Dick continued, ignoring the loathing eyes watching him.

"I've seen what you've gone through. The deaths of everyone you love, the loss, the pain, after all that you can't be fine. Any normal person wouldn't be fine. Heck, even Bruce hasn't suffered that much."

Tim flinched like he'd been slapped. "Excuse me?! You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Dick. What gives you the right to freaking tell me my life is pathetic? Who do you think you are, telling me that after all I've been through I'm some tortured soul in need of your help! What, you think just because I've had a crappy life I'm just going to break down and start sobbing or something?," he yelled.

Dick threw his hands up and yelled back, "I wish you would! Literally anything would be better than... this!" He took a breath before running a hand through his hair stressfully.

Tim crossed his arms. "And what exactly is 'this'?"

"You know", Dick said in exasperation as he gestured with his hand at Tim. "All of the walls you put up. I swear, you have higher walls than China, Tim. I seriously doubt that you've ever let anyone in enough to let them know what you're feeling. You're constantly wearing this weird mask. It's like you cover up any emotion and just let the mask convince everyone that you're okay when clearly you're not "

Tim remained stoic as Dick continued. "So yeah, I kind of do wish you'd break down. I wish you would finally stop resisting and just crumble apart and sob and cry and scream and break things and do whatever else you need to do so you can finally do something about what you're feeling besides harming yourself", he said with a hoarse voice.

"I'm not feeling anything", Tim lied. Dick didn't look even remotely convinced.

Dick hesitated for a moment. "...You know I love you, right?"

"I know that." Tim's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"I love you so, so much, little brother. Like, more than nearly everyone I know. And all I want is what's best for you. You know that, right?"

"Um, okay?"

Dick contemplated for a second, gauging his next words carefully.

"Remember when I told you about that therapist in Metropolis once?" He asked it slowly, carefully, as if trying not to set Tim off. "The offer still stands, you know. If you can't talk to me, then maybe you can talk to someone else", he offered.

Tim scowled. "No."

"But-"

"No, Dick! I'm not going to go to some random therapist just because you're being paranoid. I know how this works", he growled.

Dick paused in whatever he was going to say. "...How what works?"

Tim rolled his eyes for the millionth time that night. "The whole psych eval thing. One minute you're telling me it's just a chance to talk, that it'll be good for me, and the next you have me shoved into a straitjacket and hauled off to Arkham. I know how this goes, Dick. We do it to insane criminals every night," he muttered, hanging his head.

Dick was speechless. "A-Are you serious? What the hell put that idea into your head? I'm just trying to help you, baby bird. Do you really think we would find any reason to think you're crazy?"

Tim didn't move besides flickering his eyes to Dick for a moment, the blue irises conveying something that looked suspiciously like doubt. His head dipped lower in what vaguely resembled either embarrassment or shame.

"Is there something you're not telling me, bud?"

Tim's head whipped to the side until he was staring back into Dick's eyes dangerously, digging his fingernails into his palm. "Nothing. I don't need any help. Just drop it, okay?"

"No." Dick placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, to which Tim stiffened and immediately scooted another inch away until he was on the edge of the cot. Whether it was subconscious or intentional, Dick still felt hurt at the action. He exhaled deeply. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" Tim shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands now clenched tightly in his lap.

Dick gestured to the space between them. "Distancing yourself. You don't let anyone close to you anymore. Physically and emotionally, you make sure there's space between you and everyone who cares about you. Why do you do it? Why do you shut everyone out?"

Tim considered ignoring him, but for some reason his mouth spoke without his brain telling it to. "It's easier, I guess."

"How?", Dick wondered. "You keep all of your feelings sealed in this small cage and never let them out. You know what happens when you fill a balloon with too much air? It pops, Tim."

Tim snorted. "So what you're saying is I'm a ticking time bomb, then? Well isn't that just swell", he muttered.

Dick shook his head. "Not a bomb I guess, more like... More like a volcano." He shrank back against Tim's harsh glare.

"Not in a bad way, but really. You go through all this pain, but you keep it deep inside yourself so nobody knows what's going on. And it just keeps building up and building up until one day-" He made an explosion gesture with his hands. "It just bursts and takes everything out with it."

"I can handle myself," Tim insisted.

"Can you? Look at all of those scars on your wrists and tell me you can handle yourself. Tell me you won't hurt yourself whenever it gets bad without thinking of going to me or anyone else for help. God, I'm afraid to even leave you alone anymore!"

Tim narrowed his eyes and subconsciously rubbed his forearm with his hand. "What do you think I'm going to do, off myself? You really have that little faith in me?"

"No, Tim. I just... What if it all becomes too much for you to take anymore? What if one day you cut too deep? What if you break and before you know it you're standing on a roof, or a bridge, or in front of a truck? What will happen if you give up on keeping the pain inside and I'm not there to save you?"

Tim was slightly offended, but he kept a straight face as he scoffed, "I'm not suicidal or anything, Dick. So maybe I get stressed out sometimes. You of all people should understand that," he retorted.

"Of course I do. But we both know this isn't just stress. Cassie told me about what happened when you met future you with the Titans. She told me you nearly killed yourself," he prompted expectantly.

Tim internally groaned. He'd been hoping Dick would never find out about that, and he made plans to chew Cassie out for it later. "It was nothing you need to worry about," he assured Dick, who continued to stare skeptically.

"Nothing I need to worry about? You tried to kill yourself! You held a freaking gun to your head and nearly pulled the trigger! Are you telling me that's not concerning?"

"I didn't actually shoot myself, and the only reason I planned to in the first place was so I could save the world from myself. Not because I was depressed or suicidal, but because I was trying to help people. It wasn't some cry for help or whatever you think it was. So no, you shouldn't worry," Tim answered as calmly as he could manage.

However, Tim left out the part about how he really felt at that moment. When his future self was a murderous psychopath and the only way to stop him was to kill himself, Tim was oddly at ease. The cold metal on his temple, rather than feeling condemning, was more liberating. He was almost glad for the excuse. He wouldn't dare tell that to Dick though, who still hadn't relaxed.

"You can't just tell me not to worry and expect me to listen, little brother. I know you. I might barely ever actually understand you, but I can still sense when you're lying or hiding something from me. Why can't you just for once tell me how you're feeling? Why won't you help me to understand what's going on in that head of yours?", he asked, tapping a finger on Tim's temple.

Tim didn't answer, instead shaking his head and avoiding the question altogether. It may be suspicious and probably tell Dick all he needed to know, but it was still a far better option than spilling his guts.

Dick watched with appraisal as Tim got up off the cot and headed for the manor, ignoring the cold glare Tim sent him over his shoulder. Dick got up and followed, watching Tim the entire time as they made their way to the kitchen. He knew Tim was purposefully dodging his questions, and he can't say he hadn't been expecting it, but it was still incredibly frustrating.

Why did Tim have to be so stubborn? Even after years of living with the kid and fighting alongside him every night, Dick was still clueless to how his mind worked. Tim was like a book not only scribbled in some foreign made up language, but with each unintelligible word written backwards in some kind of secret code. No matter how hard Dick tried to get Tim to let him in, he was still met with a brick wall.

After all they've been through together, how could his little brother still not trust him? He leaned against the counter as Tim turned on the coffee maker and moved to the high cabinet that housed the mugs. When Tim stretched to reach the shelf, Dick saw not for the first time how incredibly small he was.

Not just his height, which he had to admit was already below average for a boy his age, but his weight as well. Even in the baggy hoodie that practically swallowed him whole, the sharp outlines of Tim's bones could still be seen through the thick fabric. Dick could see the teen's ribs and angular collarbone, both of which filled him with worry.

Tim was probably no more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Dick was reminded vaguely of a skeleton. Tim's hair had also grown out, now reaching down his neck and barely brushing his back. Clearly he hadn't been keeping up on it.

Was Tim even taking care of himself anymore?

Dick racked his brain in an effort to remember the last time he saw Tim eat, but he came up with nothing. Only coffee and training, that was all. He really should have intervened long ago.

From the start Tim had it rough. His parents neglected them, so he was already used to being on his own at a young age. Still, it hurt Dick to know that his little brother didn't let people close to him out of fear of losing them. And maybe he was right about that.

It was no secret that Tim had lost a lot. Sure, that was the tragic flaw everyone in their family had in common, but Tim was so much different. Everything he'd ever had had been taken away from him one time or another, leaving him nothing left to hold on to. Sure, he had Bruce, Alfred, Dick, and a couple others, but it was obvious that despite all the love he received, Tim still thought he was alone.

No matter how hard Dick tried or how often he told Tim he loved him, Tim was still convinced he couldn't be happy. He would never state it out loud of course, but Dick knew. Dick saw the emptiness in his eyes and the force behind each of his faked smiles.

Dick knew his brother. Tim may be an expert at hiding most of himself, but Dick still knew him like the back of his hand. He knew that it was a bad idea to mention his parents around him, especially his father. He knew that if you were going to spar with Tim you need to watch his right leg, which is usually what he uses to trip up his opponent. He knew that if Tim was quiet for too long and staring at nothing with his head tilted a certain way it meant he was thinking too much about depressing things and he needed to be distracted. Dick knew his brother.

But no matter how much Dick _thought_ he knew about his little brother, he was always blindsided by the realization that he didn't really know Tim at all. Tim wouldn't let him get close enough to find out.

Dick could tell Tim was already irritated by his attempts at getting him to talk about his feelings, but Dick was terrified. More than that, in fact. Tim was just so hurt and he couldn't even bring himself to go to anyone for help in dealing with it because he thought no one cared enough about him to help.

Pain radiated off him like heat from a furnace. After the deaths of his friends and family, the way nobody believed him when he was the only one aware Bruce was alive, the constant failures that he continued to blame himself for, and so many other events that would shatter any other person, Dick had no idea what would happen to Tim if it became too much for him to bear. Not even Batman had that much baggage, and Tim's life still continued to screw him over again and again as if it hadn't tormented him enough.

Dick didn't want Tim to think he pitied him or thought any less of him; he just wanted him to know that he had someone he could lean on when he needed it. He wanted Tim to release some of the weight on his shoulders and talk about his problems instead of suppressing them like always.

Dick opened the fridge and reached for an apple, grabbing another as an afterthought. He held one out for Tim as he bit into his own, but Tim only shook his head before turning back to his mug of freshly brewed coffee. Dick didn't push any more, but the refusal still scared him. Tim hadn't eaten yet today, and _still_ he was refusing food.

Tim carried his coffee towards the living room as Dick followed him like an obedient puppy. Tim huffed as he sat on the couch and Dick took a seat right next to him. "You can stop following me around now, Dick," he said.

Dick shook his head and took another bite from his apple. "Nope. We're not finished with our talk. You still haven't given me any answers, bud," he replied.

Tim groaned. Why won't Dick just give up already? "Why don't you go bother Jason or something? I'm sure he has plenty of issues for you to play around with."

"Yeah, but Jaybird also has friends he can talk to. He lets Roy and Kori get close to him. He lets them in. I don't have to worry about Jay as much as I do you."

Tim picked a book of his up from the coffee table in front of him, flipping through it. "So you're saying I have no friends? Gee thanks, I'm feeling better already," he muttered.

Dick shook his head again, harder than before. "That's not what I'm saying, Tim. I mean, yes, you don't have a lot of people to talk to anymore after..." _After pretty much everyone you know died,_ he thought, but he didn't dare voice it. "Anyway, Jason at least opens up when he needs to vent. He's not afraid to turn to people he trusts when he needs it. Damian too. But you don't."

Tim shrugged and didn't look away from his novel. Dick knew he was still listening, though. He could practically see the cogs turning in his head.

After still not receiving a response, Dick sighed and sank further into the couch, tossing his apple into the air a few times and catching it. "You know, sometimes I think you're too much of a bat. Got that from Bruce, I suppose."

Dick looked back at Tim, who merely hummed in response. Dick considered his next move. Tim so far hadn't opened up like he wanted him to besides yelling and getting pissed. He tried a new tactic.

"What are your reading?"

Tim sighed and turned the book slightly in Dick's direction, letting him read the title on the cover.

"To Kill a Mockingbird," Dick read. "Good story."

Tim didn't answer.

"Have you read it before?," he asked conversationally.

Still nothing.

Dick groaned. Great, now his walls were back and higher than before. "Ugh, so now you're giving me the silent treatment? What did I do? I'm just trying to help you out, little brother."

Tim glared, putting his book in his lap and crossing his arms. "Help? You call butting into my life and trying to get inside my head help? If you really want to help me then you'll stop and let me handle my own problems," he shot back coldly.

Dick shrank back against the biting words.

"Okay, fine. So maybe I'm being a little invasive. But that doesn't mean there isn't a problem. Please just talk to me, that's all I'm asking, babybird," he tried.

Tim growled and spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm. Fine," he spat.

Dick pushed himself off the couch, roaring, "No you're not! Someone who's fine doesn't cut himself every night after he thinks everyone's asleep! Someone who's fine doesn't shut everybody out! Someone who's fine would let his concerned brother help him because he's afraid one day he's going to break into a thousand pieces and his big brother, the person who's always supposed to have his back, won't be there to fix it!"

Dick panted from the outburst, and there was a minute of tense silence. Tim was taken aback by the sudden surge of anger, and Dick felt remorse for lashing out like that, but it needed to be said.

Tim dug his fingers into the couch beside him, speaking through clenched teeth. "Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it."

"I want you to be okay. And not your version of okay where you deal with the stress and grief by slicing up your wrists. I mean the kind where when things get bad you come to me, or Bruce, or Alfred, or hell, even Jason. I want to be assured that the next time you start feeling bad you'll come and talk instead of letting it build up until it's too late. Can you just promise me that, little brother?" Dick looked at Tim with his blue eyes wide and pleading.

Tim's own eyes met Dick's, once again emotionless. "Fine. I promise." But his voice was empty.

And with that he got off the couch and marched past Dick in the direction of his bedroom, not giving his brother a second glance.

As Dick watched his brother disappear he sighed quietly to himself, knowing Tim would get over his anger with him by the next day. Things between them would continue normally as if this whole confrontation had never happened. There was nothing more he could say to Tim about this; he'd said everything he needed to and he got the answer he wanted, even if the stiff words he'd received were laced with lies.

* * *

 ** _Yeah, like I said, super sad and angsty. I've always seen Tim as someone who's constantly suffering but refuses to do anything about it, so I wanted to write about Dick confronting him about it. Of course my bebe is too stubborn to actually let him help, but oh well, what can you do. When you read between the lines in the comics, Tim really does have a lot of issues. I've also interpreted him as someone who's afraid of his own mind and the possibility of insanity, hence that bit with the therapy suggestion. He kind of feels that he's slowly breaking apart, but he sees everything else as a higher priority, so he ignores the fact that he's slipping and instead suppresses his feelings. Dick, of course, loves his baby brother too much and tries to help because he's awesome like that. *sigh* I really need to stop writing such depressing stuff... Anyways, hope you liked it! Review please? I get such a kick out of those._**


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